


Lute Players Do It Better

by Writing-Rammstein (writingfanfic)



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-03-30 13:18:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13952403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingfanfic/pseuds/Writing-Rammstein
Summary: For the prompt: 'The reader is the daughter of the innkeeper of a small town, imagine the kind of tavern where every D&D adventure starts. Paul is a young bard that comes to play his guitar/lute there to entertain the guests. But mostly he keeps coming back for the reader. One night, the innkeeper isn’t there, he’s in some other town for business. He doesn’t like the idea of the reader and Paul, cause you know, bards… But you finally end up alone together when all the other guests have left. And finally all that sexual tension gets a release and cute confessions follow…'I tried my ass off. Sorry if it's terrible.





	Lute Players Do It Better

You wipe the table down, and then exhale. It’s not easy tonight - Father being in town and you having to run the tavern alone, but you manage. You hardly get anybody through that isn’t a regular anyway, and the regulars learned long ago that you are not to be trifled with - mage, warrior or thief, you will take a troublemaker and throw them out on their ear.

Tonight, though, it has been busy but good. Everyone has behaved themselves, and you got by with hardly any men trying to grab a handful of your arse, or look down your blouse. Small mercies.

“…a button. Again.”

You look around, and Paul - the tavern’s ‘resident’ bard - is looking dejectedly into his little pot. He looks so adorable - he’s about your age, with fluffy blond hair and big blue eyes, and you can’t help but grin.

“Aww, c’mon, Paulie,” you say, affectionately. “I can give you a room, and some bread and mead for free. You pay for meat, though,” you tease, and he looks at you dolefully.

“Some people do not appreciate good music,” he says, sadly, and you walk over to look inside the pot. There are three gold coins in there, but there are also - your brow furrows - a button, and what appears to be a tooth. You wince, and he nods.

“Oh, Paulie. You’ll do better tomorrow. The duels are on down in the Tywyllwch Woods,” you say, and he nods. “We’ll have a good few travellers, I’ll wager.” You begin to scrub at the next table, and he sits on the bench. “Now, can I get you food?”

“How much will three gold coins get me?” he asks, and you sigh. You can’t refuse him anything, no matter how much Father scolds you - “You know how them bards are!” he would tell you, and you would nod dutifully along, knowing that in secret, you would sneak out from behind the bar to listen to Paul singing all the songs from your childhood that Mama would sing. He’s stolen your heart, but he’ll never know that - or your father might run him out of town.

“Let me see…” You take the three coins, and grab a bowl from the bar, ladling some pheasant stew into it. You hand him the bowl and a wooden spoon, and then grab a tankard from the bar and fill it with mead - you can always say you dropped it and face your father’s ire later. “And here’s your change, squire.” You drop the three coins back into his hand, and he looks up at you. “Your voice attracts enough custom for us to keep you, at least for another night.” _Sure. That’s why_. You have the fierceness of your father and the honeyed words of your mama, that’s what those who knew her say.

“(Y/N), your father will be angry.”

“Oh, let him complain.” You sit next to him on the bench. “He just wants to keep me here because Mama’s gone. He thinks I’m going to run off and marry an adventurer and the inn will end up closed.” You shrug. “I _like_ the inn, but no.”

“You need a man who is happy to stay here.” He shrugs. “Mostly so that I always have a place to live. You would not throw an old bard out, would you?”

“You’re not that old! You’re barely older than me,” you laugh, and push him gently, and he sways away - you realise that you are sat arm to arm, and your heart begins to pound a little. “Ah, that charm. You better not be… I don’t know.”

“Seducing you?” he asks, and your stomach flips. “I would never, (Y/N). I have more respect for you than that.” There’s almost a sad tone to his voice. “I have no illusion that I would not be in this place if it were not for you.”

“You’re a talented bard,” you say, quietly, and all you can hear is the crackling fire and the pounding of your own heart. You fancy, if you hold your breath, which seems to be whooshing in and out of your nose, that you can hear his too. “You would be welcomed in many great halls.” The next bit falls out of your mouth without you asking it to. “So why do you stay here?”

“Well,” he says, and his voice is low and a little husky, and you realise you are both turned towards each other and there is nothing between you, no Father sending you away to scrub the cellar floor or to gather firewood - there is only you and Paul and the warmth of the fire and his hand has somehow settled on yours and your stomach is full of butterflies- “I guess that I am just fond of the company.”

He leans forward and kisses you, and you reach up to cradle his face; your heart pounds in your chest as his fingers touch your arm, and you pull him close, fingers ruffling through his blond hair. You are sure that in your fantasies about him, what came next was blurry and only to be thought about on your straw bed upstairs when nobody else could hear and you could bite the back of your hand to muffle yourself, but here it’s as clear as day, and you burn for his touch.

“Paul,” you say, quietly, and wonder how many girls he’s done this too; your father’s words have had an effect, no matter how much you like Paul. He gently lifts his fingers and strokes your cheek, and you stand up, taking his hands and leading him to the wolf-pelt rug before the fire. He kisses you again, and you undo his cloak clasp with trembling fingers - it’s a little bee, and you set it aside on the edge of the hearth carefully before pushing his green cloak off of him. He grabs it and throws it aside, and begins to unlace your kirtle, looking up at you every few seconds with eyes full of anxiety and - your stomach flips - awe.

“Is this okay? May I?” he asks, gently, and you nod - he unlaces it, and you cast it aside. If anybody were to walk in right now, they’d see you in just your smock; your cheeks pink, and he smiles at you, that awe still in his eyes. You unbutton his orange tunic, and finally get to see his chest properly, not - your blush grows as you think about it - seeing him wash with hot water from over the fire in the back yard between chores. You reach out and gently run your nails down it, and he pulls you close, kissing you intensely.

“Paul,” you sigh, and he strokes his fingers through your hair. “Paul, touch me…” You don’t know exactly what you want beyond that; this is scary and your skin is fizzling. “Paul…”

He pushes you down onto the wolf-skin, and trails his hands up between your legs, tapping against your thighs; you wonder briefly if it will hurt, but he begins by touching you gently, stroking his fingers through your wetness, and you find yourself squirming and moaning. It’s really _very_ different when someone else does it… He kisses you, gently sliding his finger inside you, and you wince a little. It burns, but in a strangely pleasant way; his kisses are distracting you, and you hastily unbutton your smock, allowing it to fall open. He kisses your neck, and then looks at you, eyes wide and earnest.

“May I kiss you?” he asks, and you couldn’t deny that beautiful voice whatever it asks of you. You nod, and he takes hold of your dress. “(Y/N)… I will stop forever if only you ask me to. I promise.” Your heart flutters, and he takes your hand, pulling it first against his chest, where you feel his heartbeat, and then to his mouth.

“Please don’t stop,” you say, and he gently pulls your smock aside - you lift yourself a little, and he pulls it out from under you.

“We would not want to damage your beautiful dress,” he says, lovingly, and you giggle. “A queen in her finery might not look as beautiful as you.” You look down, cheeks red-hot by now, and he kisses your hand again. “I am not worthy.”

“That bard charm,” you murmur, gently, and he kisses your neck again, down to your breasts, where he licks at your nipples, sliding his fingers into you again as he does so. You whimper again, but it feels too good - your legs feel weak despite the fact you’re not putting weight on them, and you can see how hard he is through his trousers. You reach out and stroke him through the rough material, and he moans - the sound makes you ache, and emboldened, you slide your hand into his pants and stroke him, skin on skin. He leans his forehead against you, talented fingers not stopping for a moment - you thank the gods for a moment that he plays the lute - and then kisses you, no long slow and passionate but sloppy and a little desperate. You feel the same. You want him inside you. “Paul-”

“Please,” he says, quietly, and you nod, lying back again. You are nervous, but you know he would not hurt you, not on purpose; he pushes his trousers down, and kisses you. “If I hurt you, I am sorry, beautiful.”

“It’s fine,” you say, quietly, and he kisses you again, before slowly sliding into you. It does hurt, in fact, it burns a little, but he stops as you wince, and holds your face. His pupils are huge, and you need to kiss him to get through it. His fingers brush over your face, and he looks at you.

“You are beautiful. You are perfect.” He looks like he is beholding a goddess; you cannot, for a moment, understand how he can look at you, the innkeeper’s daughter like this. “My love.” He goes red as he realises what he’s said, and you kiss him; he rolls his hips gently, and whilst it hurts, his touches make your skin thrill, and he kisses you over and over, breathlessly, as if he cannot stop himself. You cling to him, and his hips roll into you, his stubble scratching at your neck as he pants in your ear.

“Paul,” you whisper, and close your eyes, allowing yourself to drift on the good feeling; the burn is still there, but it feels so good as well, and you cling to him. “My love.” He kisses you ardently, and you whimper into the kiss as his thrusts get a little deeper - you stroke his back gently, and feel the muscles - who would’ve guessed he was so strong? Oh yes, _you_ , who had watched him helping your father cut wood in payment for his keep - shifting under your fingers. You kiss his shoulder and collarbone, feeling his chest heave, and he kisses you.

“Darling,” he gasps, and that is the warning you get; he arches against you, shivering as he does so and moaning your name, and you cling to him as he rides it out. You feel a little ache for a moment as he pushes himself up, and then he kisses you, eyes wide. “Darling, I am sorry, did it hurt?”

“A little,” you say, quietly, and he kisses you. You sit up, and he looks at you - his blond hair is in wild spikes, and he sits back to pull off his trousers. “The door is unlocked. Anybody could walk in…”

His eyes widen, and he scrambles for the door, naked; you can’t help but laugh at how childish he looks, and as he returns, he smiles at you. The fire is beginning to die - you lean forward, and he shakes his head, throwing some logs on the fire before grabbing his cloak and pulling it over the two of you by the fire.

“Your father may kill me, but I don’t care. I love you,” he says, after a moment of staring into the flames, and you lean against him. You love him too - you’re pretty sure of it. “And I am sorry it hurt. Next time, I promise to make you feel good.”

“Good,” you grin, and he kisses you, once more, the slow, dreamy kisses you dreamt of. “I… I’ve thought about this. So many times.” You look down at your naked body, and he pulls you close.

“So have I. But I never thought you would notice me.” He sighs, and you kiss him. “Nobody notices a bard who is not singing.”

“I did,” you sigh lovingly, and wince, shifting uncomfortably. “You honestly-? You care for me? Like I care for you?” He nods, and his eyes are so earnest in the firelight that your heart dances in joy. “Then stay with me. Father can complain, but I’ve made my choice.” He holds you close to him, and you lean your head against his chest. You mean to say more, but you doze off, and at some point, you feel yourself carried to bed.


End file.
